The town is strange and wondrously nostalgic. My mother has often described in as locked in time, but I don’t think that accurately depicts the shallow melancholy that burrows deep in the heart of your lungs. It’s more as if the town chose to stay in the past. It had the distinct rebelliousness of a teenager, and it had an unhealthy desire to be left behind. It wanted to have the allure of an abandoned ghost town that somehow managed to be occupied with humans. And it succeeded.
My grandmother lives in a house that looks like a trailer home if you drive past it fast enough. It’s wide and painted a creamy white with a bright red door pushed to the right side like the rest of the house didn’t want it. The door has a sticker on it that used to be a yellow smiley face but was now a dull pale circle; its happiness eradicated by the wear of nature.
When I was six, I peeled the sticker off a waxy sheet of paper and stuck it on the door, thinking Good, now the house will be happy. I remember how distinctly sad the house looked. I don’t know how a house can convey emotion, but this one certainly did.
The second time I came to Grandma’s house was the summer after freshman year of high school. My mother dropped me off and exchanged a few words with Grandma before her caramel colored Toyota teetered off down the sloping street, the sun glinting off the windows.
Grandma was a tall towering woman, with snow white hair that looked oddly out of place paired with her extremely tan skin. She was in her late seventy’s from what I’ve been told. Of course she would never state her age personally as she described the action as “highly inappropriate.” To keep herself looking youthful she drew on her eyebrows with a brown eyeliner pencil and patted liquid foundation on with a little foam triangle. A shock of crusty blue lined her hazel eyes along with a heavy coating of mascara. When I was six, I sat on the cold tile floor of her bathroom watching her apply her makeup in her silk paisley patterned bathrobe with her hair done up in bright aquamarine curlers and for some reason, the routine is implemented permanently in my mind.
The town is also hot. Sweat dripping down your back, all the windows open, egg frying on the sidewalk hot. Henry actually tried to do that once. The outside of it cooked but the inside was still cold and runny. But Henry ate it anyway because he isn’t the type of person who easily admits they were wrong.


It was even hotter on the mountain. Maybe it was because we were closer to the sun, but, regardless, it was hot. I climbed halfway up the mountain on the first day with Henry, Alice, and Marlene. Marlene hadn’t been invited, but she managed to sneak along anyway. Then again, Marlene could commit third-degree manslaughter and get away clean.
So it was hotter on the mountain. Henry ignored the heat and wore a long-sleeved plaid shirt with that stupid beige fedora he wears to feel different. He walked behind the rest of us, throwing various glares towards Marlene. He was ridden with a constant state of repugnance towards the little eight-year old. Nobody really knew exactly why, he just loathed being in her presence and he despised every detail of her heart-shaped face.
Alice walked ahead of me. She was quick and limber, jumping across the rocks and fallen tree trunks. As I trekked up the hill, her name reminded me of Alice in Wonderland. Soon enough, I began to wonder what would happen if she, in fact, was the real Alice. I wondered if we would fall down a rabbit hole together. I wondered if the rabbit hole would be cooler than the stifling air above. Slowly, I tumbled hazily into a daydream. I sleepwalked up the mountain, fantasizing of muted pastels and rabbit holes.
Mel lived at the top of the mountain in an old observatory. It seemed to rise over the slope like a big pale moon, the sun bouncing off of the side creating a blinding glare. There was a makeshift house attached to the front of it, lodging the entryway. Alice opened the door without knocking and a cascade of blue umbrellas collapsed at her feet.
She screamed for Mel and slow tittering footsteps echoed throughout the room. After a prolonged amount of time, Mel appeared, wearing a foreboding mosquito hat that shaded his dry skin as if it were a wedding veil.
He gathered the blue umbrellas from the floor, leaning on his mahogany colored plastic cane. He explained that he was making a collection. I didn’t know what that meant, but I remained silent.
He ushered us into the observatory which seemed to function as his entire house. It was packed with boundless clutter. But it seemed to be a systematized kind of clutter. The piles of objects were all sorted specifically. The utensils were stacked on a card table. The phone chargers looked like jungle vines as they swung slightly, suspended from the ceiling. The magazines were lined up like skyscrapers by the window and so on.
I noticed that the walls were plastered with those inspirational posters you see in first grade classrooms and dentist’s offices. Phrases like “Shoot for the moon, even if you miss you’ll land among the stars!” and “Be the best person you can every day!”
Mel noticed me staring and muttered, “It keeps me going.” Soon after that, Alice got whatever her mother had needed from him and we fled.
Two days later I met Pepper and Dean. Pepper isn’t her real name; it’s Patricia. Patricia was shortened to Patty which was lengthened to Peppermint Patty then came Peppermint and finally Pepper.
She worked at the only non-fast food restaurant in town. It was three trailers connected together like train cars with a poorly made sign out front that read “Charlie’s”. Nobody knew who Charlie actually was, but it was an accepted fact that whoever “Charlie” happened to be had owned this sad little structure at one point.
Pepper worked there, leaning idly against the red countertops with her light blonde hair hanging over round rosy cheeks. She never really worked, so much as hovered there. But she liked me, because I was quiet and would let her talk. Dean, her boyfriend, liked me too.
Dean was tall, with tattoos climbing up his right arm and extending to his neck. His hair was bleached white blond and shaved from his ears down. There always seemed to be a cigarette constantly dangling under his prominent nose. He ignored the smoking rules the same way the town ignored the passing time.
“What’s your name?” He asked me.
“Chase.”
“You’re Mabel’s grandkid, right?”
I nodded. He half-smiled.
“You’re quiet, kid,” He noted. I nodded again. He laughed and called me “kid” again. I wanted to remind him that we were only two years apart in age, but I knew that he wasn’t calling me “kid” with a lack of respect.

We rode with all the windows rolled down. The stale smell of mangos and cigarette smoke clenched onto the walls of the vehicle. Dean drove with one hand on the wheel and the other outstretched into the air, fingers spread wide. Pepper laughed at nothing, or maybe she was laughing at life. She laughed like she had beaten it.
The building had nothing that identified it as a roller staking rink except the obnoxiously large statue of a roller skate that was painted an Easter-egg pink. It was about two or three feet taller than Dean and wasn’t a statue as much as it was a sixth grade art project. It was unknown what material it was constructed off, but it was an unstable material. This was why the thing was nailed down onto several cinder blocks to prevent it from drifting away.
As we walked across the barren parking lot, Pepper retold a story about how Dean had crawled into the giant roller skate a few years ago and got stuck. I wasn’t really listening, but I let her talk anyway.
The place was completely vacant suffice for the only employee. He was in his mid-twenties, with an extremely pimply face. He looked like he was sleepwalking through the workday. When we walked in the door, he was leaning back in his chair at a dangerous angle with his feet propped up on the tabletop. He threw a respective nod in Dean’s direction and then gestured over to the shelf that held a sorry selection of roller skates.
I didn’t know how to roller skate, and didn’t really want to learn. Instead of participating, I sat on the side of the rink watching the two of them circle around. It was kind of mesmerizing, and my vision soon grew blurry as I began to daydream again. It was an addictive habit which played a major role in a play entitled “How Chase Managed to Fail the Ninth Grade.” I never dreamt of anything in particular. My brain was just filled with blots of shapes and colors. I sat back, letting the song that was playing on the weak speakers put me in a trance.
I woke up later, with Dean kicking my shoulder.
“We’re leaving, sleeping beauty,” He said. I winced at the sharp sting of pain he left me with.
“Man up, kid.”





Throughout the duration of that summer, Dean and Pepper quietly adopted me and whisked me away to whatever tiny escapade they so desired. The events sort of faded into an unrecognizable blur. There were a few occasions that I can recall, such as breaking into abandoned barns and setting various things on fire. It was around the time of breaking into barns, that I came to a sort of personal realization. The way I figured it, life is a game. It’s a sick twisted game that you play because you’re ignorant and you haven’t any way of understanding it. Some people play this game, and they don’t even realize it. They slide through life with ease. They may not lead the perfect life, but it sure is uncomplicated. There is a very small population of people who are fully aware that life is a game, and they play the game with astounding precision. And then there are the rebels, who refuse to play the game, which usually causes them to lose it. Then there are people who are in a constant state of confusion in regards to the boundless perplexities and complications of the game. There are people who live life like it’s a game their not afraid of losing, such as Dean and Pepper and to an extent myself. I didn’t know how to feel about this, and I felt as though the words hadn’t even come out of my own brain, much less they be true. So, I tried to push these thoughts away, ignoring the blaring neon sign flashing in my head.
But I do, however, remember the last event with astonishing clarity. It was the final week of the summer, and Dean wanted to end it with a bang, a final hurrah. He invited everyone that he deemed worthy enough to join him, which was a very selective group that somehow managed to contain me.
So, on the last week of summer, Dean and his friends drove up to a fireworks warehouse and bought an alarming amount of fireworks of varying intensities. Then the next night, we climbed over the fence that enclosed the miniature golf course and then entered the big plastic pirate ship that was situated the exact center of the florescent green golf course.
Dean and his friend Jose began throwing all the fireworks in a giant mountainous pile that stacked up on the hill opposite us. It looked dangerous and extremely illegal, which wasn’t disconcerting since these were accurate adjectives to describe most of my summer.
Pepper slung her arm around me, calling me a “sweet kid” and saying that she’d miss me a lot when I went back home. I could hear the faint tears in her voice as she spoke, just rambling on about nothing that really mattered.
Her voice was soon drowned out by the sudden detonation of the pile of fireworks as Dean threw a lighter onto it. Sparks danced in the black air, landing at our feet. Loud pops exploded along with bright orange streaks zigzagging across my vision. My senses were overwhelmed with gaudy display. Then all too soon, it ended with a weak whine as the last ember fizzled out. Dean stood up, laughing garishly.
“Pepper!” He shouted, turning towards her, “We’re going to Jake’s.”
“Why?”


“Look, I promised him I would,” He said. Pepper sighed and stood up. The rest of the party agreed that they would take different cars. As they walked away, they shot Dean a criticizing glance. I didn’t know why, but Dean pulled be into the backseat before I could question them. Dean got in the driver’s seat and Pepper placed a hand on his arm.


“Are you okay?”


“I’m fine.”


He started the engine and it sputtered briefly before Dean pulled out of the parking space and onto the main road. It was darker than it had been before, and the trees flew past my window. I was beginning to feel slightly nauseous as we rolled over the laborious hills.


“God Dean, slow down,” Pepper warned, more of a plead than a demand. He ignored her and continued to drive.


A limber creature trotted out into the road, and soon enough it’s agile body was frozen in the center of the road. It’s big brown eyes gazed at us, caught in our headlights. Pepper was screaming. I tried to scream too, but my breath was trapped inside my throat.


As Dean swerved off into the side, fear lurched itself into my stomach. I felt like my body was made of lead and I clenched the side of the side, regretting my decision to ignore the seat belt.


My forehead slammed against the back of the passenger’s seat violently. I sat up immediately, the wind knocked out of my lungs. When I brought my hand to my head, I found that a steady stream of blood was trickling from the wound.


“Pepper?”


“I’m fine, I’m okay,” Her voice was desperately tortured, drowned by sobs, “Dean’s not.”


As my vision cleared, I looked over to the driver’s seat to see Dean, his limp body slumped over the wheel. The windshield was shattered over his shoulders. A gushing wound was located by his neck and blood was spread all over his face.


“We need to call the police,” I said coldly.


“Do you have a phone?” Pepper looked at me and I shook my head.


“Dean does,” She said, gulping.


“Do you want me to get it from him?” I said. She nodded, closing her eyes and resisting the urge to vomit.



I swallowed any fears and climbed out of the crevasse between the back seat and the passenger’s seat, where I had landed. I noticed the silver cell phone clutched in his right hand, cloaked in a layer of broken glass and blood. I shut my eyes, and pried the device from his fingers. I flicked it open, feeling the cold blood seeping onto my fingers. No, no, no, no.



At the funeral, Pepper told me that Dean had been drinking and that he was angry because she had broken up with him earlier. I could tell that she blamed herself for it. It made me sad, because I knew that she was never going to stop been sad about it.


Mel was at the funeral too, although I don’t know why. I asked him about it and he told me that he’s been to every funeral in the town since its founding and he wasn’t going to stop now. Then he started rambling about Dean. After a few minutes, I realized that Dean was, in fact, the man’s grandson.


“You know, son,” He said to me, “I never really spent much time with the boy. He always scared me. I really regret that now, as you can imagine. But, now I realize something odd. Dean was a lot like this town. I don’t know how a person could be like a town, but this boy was. He was old, even though he was very young. He wasn’t very wise either, although he thought he was. He was a certified rebel, that boy. Just like the town. He’s the human embodiment of this town he is. That isn’t a good thing nor is it a bad thing. But it is a thing worth remembering.”